


Let It Snow

by ikeracity



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, High School Enemies, M/M, Reunions, Snowed In
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 14:08:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1094829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikeracity/pseuds/ikeracity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Old high school enemies Charles and Erik bump into each other on the street during a freak snowstorm. After taking shelter at Charles' place, they spend the evening catching up and eventually figuring out they actually had a thing for each other back in school. </p><p>Actually, they might still have a thing for each other. </p><p>Actually, they <i>definitely</i> still have a thing for each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let It Snow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redwesteinde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redwesteinde/gifts).



> I meant to finish this in time to upload it to the Secret Mutant Madness archive but the fic got away from me. Of course it did. But happy holidays, redwesteinde! Hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Thank you to kageillusionz and velvetcadence for the beta. Thanks also to black--betty for the consultation about winter weather :)

The storm arrived in the time it took Charles to slip into his office, gather the papers he’d forgotten, check his email on his computer, and make sure everything was shut down and filed away properly before he left. He made it halfway out of the building before having to turn back because he’d forgotten his keys on his desk, and by the time he came to the front doors, the world outside was blurred in a flurry of white.

He saw in an instant that this wasn’t going to be a lazy, pleasant sprinkle of snow that left just enough on the sidewalks for his shoes to make impressions. The wind outside howled audibly, whipping snow through the air to create a whirling screen that made it impossible to see ten feet away, and from the looks of it, the road was already blanketed in white. One lonely car, visible only by the dim glow of its headlights, trundled slowly around the corner and disappeared.

Charles stopped by the doors and shivered, the cold from outside radiating in from the glass of the windows and seeping through the thin layer of his jeans. Damn. It was only a fifteen-minute walk from his apartment to the university and the sun had been shining warmly earlier, so he hadn’t bothered to bring his winter coat or gloves. He didn’t even have his scarf, which left him only in the tattered Christmas sweater that he broke out every December and his jeans and sneakers. He’d even checked the forecast beforehand, wary of the overhanging clouds that had been lingering for a couple of days, and there had been a mere 10% chance of precipitation. The weather app, he decided as he stared out into the blurred white void of the outdoors, was absolute rubbish.

After a moment, he cast out a mental net, hoping to find someone familiar from whom he could solicit a ride. He looked for Moira or Jean, or maybe even Scott, who sometimes hung out here on the weekends in increasingly obvious attempts at catching Jean’s eye. One of these days, Charles was going to take pity on him and simply tell him that Jean took fifteen extra minutes loitering in the faculty lounge every Tuesday and Thursday because she knew Scott took his lunch break later than she did, and that she had been patiently waiting for him to ask her out since September. But it was awfully entertaining to watch Scott, who was normally so brash and confident, blunder around like an ungainly foal. Besides, Charles figured that Jean wouldn’t appreciate any external help. She seemed to be enjoying the long game after all.

He had no luck in locating any familiar minds nearby. In fact, the building was almost completely empty, save for him and a couple of janitors on the second floor closing up for the night. Evidently everyone else had gotten the weather memo and made the executive decision to stay home. Fantastic.

He put his hand on the metal door handle and hissed at the burning cold. Well, he couldn’t stay here if the building was being locked up for the night. Raven was at her Christmas party, and he didn’t want her driving in this sort of visibility anyway. Plus, his apartment was only fifteen minutes away. Maybe twelve if he sprinted.

After making sure his satchel was buckled securely, he took a breath, pushed open the door, and was nearly tossed straight back by the pummeling wind. Gritting his teeth, he slogged out into the first few inches of snow, his sneakers soaking almost instantly. It took a minute to get the door closed again, and by the time he’d managed it, his teeth were chattering and he wasn’t sure he could feel his fingers. Oh, he was going to spend the week before Christmas in the hospital with frostbite, he just knew it. He could taste the hospital Jell-O already.

Running through the snow with sneakers was a struggle in and of itself, and that combined with the chilling wind that hurled stinging snowflakes into his face made him heartily regret his decision to even get out of bed this morning. Damn finals deadlines. If he hadn’t needed to have grades entered by Monday afternoon, he’d never have gone back to get them so late on a Friday night.

At the end of the street, he skidded on ice and nearly slammed face-first into the brick corner of the building. Only his feet tangling up on a branch hidden underneath the snowfall saved him from a broken nose, pitching him sideways into the snow drift by the sidewalk, his flailing arms catching nothing but air as he tried to break his fall. The _whump_ as he hit the snow and sank in nearly six inches muffled the roaring wind, and for a moment as he lay half-buried on the side of the road, the world outside quieted. He could just lie here, he considered. They’d find his body in the morning when the snow plows came through and notified the proper authorities. He might be a corpse and Raven might kill him and he might actually have to give his mother the satisfaction of seeing him die in this horrid sweater of his like she always said he would because he refused to wear ‘real winter clothing,’ but at least he wouldn’t be so damnably _cold_.

 _How terribly morbid_ , he mused as he tried to figure out where his hands were. _I’ve been reading too much of that Brotherhood nonsense again._

He was in the process of wondering if his feet were simply slow in responding, or if they’d gone so numb they’d actually fallen off, when he felt a presence nearing. He twisted around halfway onto his back in time to catch sight of a shadow shuffling up through the snow, face half obscured by the hood of an eye-catchingly magenta-and-black parka that, despite its awful color scheme, looked enviably warm. Black boots sank through the snow next to his head, and a moment later, a hand clamped down firmly on his forearm and hauled him bodily to his feet.

For a moment he swayed there a bit dazed, shivering so hard he nearly fell over again. But the stranger’s grip on him steadied him, and he leaned into it and away from the wind, trying to catch his breath.

The stranger shook him slightly, then again. It took Charles a moment to realize that he was being asked a question, but the words were being snatched away by the wind. He shook his head and mouthed, “ _I can’t hear_ ,” but the other man said something again, clearly misunderstanding. He motioned at Charles and then waved incomprehensibly at the buildings around them. “Oh, bugger,” Charles said aloud, too cold and tired to bother with a guessing game. He opened his mind and said, _Terribly sorry about intruding but this is much easier, isn’t it?_

The stranger released him so quickly he staggered back and almost tripped over the same branch that had sent him flying the first time. Surprise rippled through their contact, then caution. But there was no fear there, Charles noted with some relief. No rush of that intolerant hatred that normally consumed the thoughts of a mutantphobe confronted with a mutation.

 _Telepath?_ the stranger said after a moment, and Charles froze. He knew that voice, knew the rough curl of that accent.  

 _Erik?_ he demanded incredulously.

Now there _was_ a rush of emotion: wordless recognition and shock that mirrored Charles’ own. _Xavier?_

 _It’s you,_ Charles said in amazement, recognizing now the sharp edges of Erik’s mind, reminiscent of steel-and-glass offices edging a skyline. Ten years later and he still remembered the chafe of Erik’s mindscape, the way its uneven corners had fascinated him the first time he had felt them, that afternoon outside the first debate class they had shared in high school. Ten years later and still that old curiosity came surging back, that desire to know what Erik was hiding underneath all his mental shields, that desire to know _Erik._

He started to ask what on earth Erik was doing here in New York of all places when Erik said, with a distinct hint of disapproval, _You’ve got to be freezing_ , and he realized that a street corner in the middle of a freak snowstorm was probably not the best of places to catch up.

 _A little,_ he admitted, glad he wasn’t speaking out loud because he wasn’t sure he could have managed it with his teeth clattering as hard as they were. The image of them sharing a cab flashed through Erik’s mind, but Charles shook his head and pointed down the street hurriedly before shoving his hand back into the pockets of his sweater. _I live down the way a little. It’s really not far._

Erik gave him another glance and then began to drag him rapidly down the street. _You’re not even wearing gloves, you idiot_.

 _Believe me, I’m fully aware of it,_ Charles replied, wondering if he’d even have hands left by the time they finally reached any sort of warmth. He followed behind Erik’s trail as best as he could, glad there was someone to break through the calf-deep blanket of snow on the sidewalk. Cold as he was, he wasn’t sure if he’d have had the energy to struggle through the snow himself.

By some miracle, they fought through the vicious storm and staggered their way up the entry stairs to Charles’ door. He tried to fumble through his pocket for his key, but before he could find it, Erik waved his hand and ushered him through, the wind slamming the door shut behind them with a stunning bang of finality.

Charles let out a long groan and stumbled over to the thermostat the crank the heat up as high as it would go. He was shaking, his hands blood-red from the cold, his teeth clicking audibly together as he tried to clench them to keep them still. Erik, his mind a sudden thundercloud of annoyance, was on him in an instant, yanking at his sweater. “Get this off,” he ordered. His voice was startling out loud, even deeper than Charles remembered it. “You’re going to get seriously sick in all these wet clothes—”

Charles tried to help him, but he couldn’t feel his fingers so he let Erik do most of the work. Quick hands tugged the wet woolen sweater over his head and tossed it to the side and then did the same with the damp Oxford t-shirt underneath. Erik’s fingers twitched for the belt of Charles’ sopping jeans and then froze. Charles froze, too, his heart suddenly hammering against his chest. For a moment, they simply stared at each other.

Then Erik broke eye contact and muttered, “Where are your blankets? Towels?” Through his trembling, Charles managed, “P—pantry do—down the hall.”

As Erik disappeared around the corner, Charles undid his belt with some difficulty and shimmied out of his jeans. Leaving his clothes in a dripping pile on the kitchen floor, he tottered down the hall after Erik and found him rummaging around in the pantry, tossing Charles’ extra set of bed sheets out onto the floor. Charles brushed past him into the bedroom and yanked the closet open, reaching for two pairs of sweatpants and as many sweaters as he could get his hands on. He stripped out of his boxers, pulled on new ones, added both pairs of sweatpants over that, and then fought his way into two sweaters.

“Here,” Erik said, appearing with an armful of blankets that he began to wrap around Charles’ shoulders. “What were you thinking, going out in weather like that with barely anything on you?”

The displeasure in both his voice and his mind was almost more warming than the layers. They hadn’t parted on the best of terms after all, which only made the concern buried beneath Erik’s disgruntlement all the more surprising. Charles shook his head and gripped the edges of the blankets around him with stiff fingers. “I d—didn’t expect it to s—storm like that.”

“Come on,” Erik said gruffly, herding him out of the bedroom. “Do you have a heater somewhere?”

“Closet.”

Erik raised his hand, and the heater clattered out of the closet and levitated through the air toward them. Charles stared at it, having nearly forgotten the wonder of Erik’s power. In all the ten years since they’d last met, he had never met another metallokinetic quite like Erik, who wielded his mutation effortlessly and unabashedly, almost as if he were challenging others to comment on it. Erik gave Charles no chance to say anything now; he herded Charles out of the bedroom to the living room, where the heater plugged itself in and turned on full as Erik pushed Charles down onto the couch and then pulled the heater closer so that Charles could thrust his hands in front of it. The warmth felt glorious against his frozen skin, and after a few minutes, his teeth stopped trying to shatter each other apart.

“Thank you,” he said finally, when he could speak without stuttering.

“Stupid,” Erik muttered. He was standing a few feet away, not quite hovering but watching Charles intently. “You could have gotten hypothermia or something.”   

“It wasn’t _that_ bad,” Charles protested.

“It’s two degrees outside and you were wearing two layers, no gloves, no scarf, and sneakers.”

“It was a short walk, and to be fair, it was warmer when I left here.”

“You were lying face-down in a snow drift when I found you.”

Charles winced. “Not my best moment.”

“Not really,” Erik agreed.

They lapsed into silence as Charles continued to thaw out. He snuck a glance out of the corner of his eye at Erik, who had taken off his gloves and was twisting them between his hands restlessly. Even in that gaudy, eye-sore of a magenta coat, he looked as intimidating as Charles remembered him, all long, sharp lines and steely dark eyes that swept around Charles’ home, taking in the pictures on the mantel, the papers scattered across the glass surface of the coffee table, the bookshelf that was overflowing with books and papers Charles had never bothered to get rid of. He’d shut up his mind again so that Charles could only catch vague impressions without diving in more deeply, and they’d agreed long ago—though Charles wasn’t sure how much of an agreement still existed between them—that when Erik shielded his mind, it meant Charles would stay out. He figured he would honor that promise, though the urge to riffle through Erik’s memories, to see what Erik had been up to these past ten years and why he was in New York now and how on earth he’d found Charles, was nearly overwhelming. Erik’s expression was no easier to read: only his mouth, pulled into a stern line, gave any indication of emotion.

Abruptly, Erik slipped his gloves back on and said, “Well, don’t do that again. Stay inside until you learn how to dress yourself properly.”

Then he turned on his heel and strode for the door.

Charles’ brows knitted. “Where are you going?”

Erik stopped with his hand on the doorknob. “Home. It’s supposed to get worse later, so I should go while I can.”

“You can’t go out there,” Charles objected, pointing at the window, which showed nothing more than a solid wall of white. “No one should be outside in a storm like this.”

“I’ll be all right—”

“It would be absolutely unconscionable for me to let you leave in this sort of weather,” Charles insisted, struggling to his feet. Bundled up as he was from shoulders to feet in blankets, he wobbled clumsily for a moment before catching his balance. “ _And_ after you helped me, no less,” he added, shuffling toward Erik. “Please, sit down. I can make you tea, or hot chocolate if you’d prefer. At least stay until the storm dies down a bit. I’d hate to turn on the news tomorrow morning and hear that you’d frozen to death.”

“That wouldn’t happen,” Erik muttered, but after a moment, he turned back anyway. “Only until the storm dies down.”

Charles nodded agreeably and shed a couple of the blankets so that he could move around more easily. As Erik tugged off his gloves again and shrugged out of his thick coat, Charles padded to the kitchen, kicked aside his wet clothes, and filled up his kettle. “Would you like tea or hot chocolate? Or perhaps coffee? I think I have some around here somewhere.”

“Hot chocolate sounds good.”

“One for each of us then.”

As Charles searched through the cupboards for an extra mug, Erik hung his coat and scarf up at the rack by the door and then wandered over to glance through the pictures on Charles’ mantel as the kettle began to warm. Oddly nervous, Charles watched him as he surveyed the place, traveling slowly from picture to picture before moving to the overstuffed bookshelf.

Charles hardly ever had anyone over, so it felt strangely intimate now to allow Erik to look through his things, as if he were exposing parts of himself for scrutiny. Even when they had known each other, they had never really been close. Outside of school, they had run in the same circle of friends by virtue of being the few mutants in a majority-human school, but they had always socialized in a group. The only times they had directly engaged one another had been in their class debates, which had been notoriously hostile. Most of the school had even taken to labeling them archenemies, and neither Charles nor Erik had bothered to dispute that. It had felt exciting back then, to be so obviously antagonistic that everyone had noticed, to be referred to by others as one half of _‘that infamous rivalry.’_

Now, ten years later, it felt more than a little silly, especially when Erik turned to him with the beginnings of a grin as he pointed to one of the picture frames. “Is this you?” What little Charles could glean from his mind was hardly unfriendly at all, merely curious.  

He glanced over and grinned, too, when he saw which picture Erik was gesturing at. The majority of it was an expanse of white, with just the hint of a blue sky at the top. One bundled-up figure stood at the top of the steep hill while another dark blur tumbled down over a path of moguls, one ski dug into the snow further uphill while the other was nowhere to be seen. It had been quite the shot, one that he’d happily had framed even though Raven had begged him to burn it.

“No, that’s not me,” he answered. “I’m the one standing at the top of the slope. The one falling down it is my sister, Raven.”

“Ah. Not a natural then?”

“Definitely not. Raven would choose a beach resort over a ski lift any day. She’s taken a dozen lessons but she never gets any better at it.”

“And you?”

“And me what?”

“Are you any good?”

“Oh.” Charles shrugged. “I’m all right. I’ve been skiing since I was pretty young. It was a family tradition. The ski resort part, I mean. Not so much the skiing.”

“What else is there to do at a ski resort?” Erik asked, bemused.

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Charles replied wryly. He tore open a package of hot chocolate powder and tipped it into his favorite mug, the one with the double helixes winding around its circumference, and then emptied a second package into the extra mug he’d dug out, a dark blue souvenir from Oxford. As the kettle began to whistle, he switched off the stove and moved to pour the boiling water into both mugs, keeping Erik in the corner of his eye as he did. The pictures at the mantel sufficiently examined, Erik had moved on to the bookshelf and was currently bending over to glance through the titles stacked haphazardly on the lower shelves. He picked one out and held it up to look it over it for a moment before tilting it so Charles could see. “What’s this?”

Charles leaned over the counter to get a better look. “That? It was my thesis for my PhD.”

Erik arched an eyebrow. “You have a PhD?”

“Two, actually.”  

“So it’s Doctor Xavier now?”

“It is,” Charles confirmed proudly.

“Doctor Xavier,” Erik repeated, rolling the words through his mouth slowly. Charles could almost see them visibly curving off his tongue, and it made something warm curl in his gut. “It has a nice ring to it.”

“I do like to bask in it when I’m feeling particularly vain,” Charles agreed. “But _Charles_ works for everyday purposes.”

“Charles,” Erik echoed, and Charles’ belly gave a funny little lurch. Had Erik always said his name like that, accent bending throatily around the middle so that it sounded almost like a purr?

It took him a moment to realize Erik had continued speaking. “—some warmth, if you have any….Charles?”

He snapped out of his daze. “Hmm?”

Erik gave him a patient look. “I was asking if you wanted me to start a fire in the fireplace. We could use the warmth. Do you have any firelighters?”

“Oh. In the box on the mantel.”

Erik retrieved the package and then bent to reach into the hearth. As he worked, Charles stirred the hot chocolate and then scrounged around for marshmallows. By the time he carried both mugs out to the living room, Erik had gotten a small fire going, with enough fuel to promise a steady blaze once it caught. The iron poker that normally sat unused for much of the year hovered by Erik’s side, occasionally dipping in to lift a log or push cinders back into the safety of the fireplace. Charles set Erik’s hot chocolate down on the coffee table, shuffled some papers out of the way, and then found a coaster for each of them. Then he folded himself into one end of the long couch, knees tucked up to his chest, a blanket still draped around his shoulders and his mug warming his hands.

“There are extra marshmallows in the kitchen if you’d like them,” he offered when Erik laid the poker down and turned around.

After an experimental sip, Erik shook his head. “This is fine. Thank you.”

He remained standing for a moment, glancing between the armchair and the other end of the couch. Charles drew his legs up nearer, hoping to make the space next to him seem more inviting. But after a moment, Erik took the armchair by the fire, arranging the pillows comfortably around himself and stretching his long legs out in front of the hearth.

He’d grown into himself, Charles mused, eyeing him. He’d been gangly when Charles had known him, his limbs slightly too long and skinny for his body, the angles of his face a little too sharp to be handsome. But now he had put on some muscle and the length of his body was elegant rather than excessive. The past ten years had given his face a certain maturity, too, filling it out so that the lines didn’t look quite so severe anymore.

He was, Charles decided, strikingly gorgeous. And, with Charles’ luck, he was probably firmly unavailable.

“What’s all this?” Erik asked, leaning forward to look over Charles’ work on the coffee table.

“Essays,” Charles replied. He put his mug down on the coaster on the edge of the table and set about tidying up the mess. “I’m a professor.”

Erik picked up one of the pages and scanned it over. “What is this, English? I always took you to be more of a science person.”

“I am. My main department is Genetics. But I was asked to take over a Mutant Studies class this year since they were low on faculty.”

“Mutant Studies.” Erik raised an eyebrow. “Charles Xavier, who never wanted to fight and always argued in favor of kowtowing to the humans, even if that meant ceding basic mutant rights. I shudder to think of what you’re teaching the younger generation.”

The mood in the room flipped instantly. Charles bristled, a fiery response snapping to his mouth, but when he started to glare across the table, the corner of Erik’s lip was tilted up in a smirk. Confused, he paused. Was Erik…was Erik _teasing_ him? Was that a mischievous glint in his eye, challenging and assessing and good-humored all at once?

“You’re slipping,” Erik remarked when Charles said nothing. “You used to start in on your rebuttal even before I finished talking.”

“I…” Charles shook himself, forcing his eyes away from that little smirk. “It’s just been a while since I’ve had anyone to debate, I suppose.” He took a sip of hot chocolate to gather himself and then couldn’t resist adding, “For the record, I never argued in favor of _kowtowing_.” 

“You supported the MRA.”

“With _caveats_ ,” Charles reminded him. He was startled by how effortlessly their debates sprang to mind, as if it had been just yesterday they’d been near-shouting at each other over their desks as the long-suffering Mr. Johnson had simply stood silently in front of the whiteboard and rubbed at his perpetual headache. “The Registration Act had its problems, I never denied that. But it had benefits as well.”

“You also argued against the Equality Initiative,” Erik pointed out.

“Which was beyond radical and you knew it. It never would have passed through the House or the Senate, if it had ever even gotten that far. It was a whole lot of anti-baseline sentiment couched in moderate language written by—might I remind you—the _Brotherhood_ , which is notably _not_ interested in equality for all, or even for all mutants, really. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten all our lessons on Sebastian Shaw and the Brotherhood. Have you read through their website recently? Positively incendiary.”

Erik’s eyes had never wavered from him as he’d been talking and now that smirk warmed into something of a real smile. For a moment, he said nothing, and Charles fought the urge to fidget under the sudden intensity of his gaze.

“You haven’t changed at all, have you?” Erik said finally.

Charles cocked his head, brows furrowed. “What?”

“Ten years and you’re still exactly as I remember you.” Erik’s eyes flicked downward. “Even your ugly sweaters are the same.”

“Hey! I _like_ this sweater, thank you very much.” But his protest was hardly vehement, what with his thoughts stuck on the fact that Erik _remembered_ him. Perhaps as well as Charles remembered Erik, whom he could picture perfectly even now: that tall, aloof boy with his backpack slung over his left shoulder and his eyes cool and disinterested as they’d skipped right over Charles, always looking for other friends. First crushes tended to linger like that, he supposed. You never forgot them.

Hoping he wasn’t flushing, he retorted, “You haven’t changed much either. Still in favor of locking up all the baselines and turning America into some sort of military dictatorship?”

“I used that example _one_ time,” Erik objected.

“Still interested in joining the Brotherhood after graduation then?” Charles challenged.

Erik scoffed. “I actually _haven’t_ forgotten our lessons on Shaw and the Brotherhood, you know. And with how disorganized and, frankly, unhinged the Brotherhood has gotten lately, no, I’m not interested anymore.”

“You _have_ changed then,” Charles marveled with a grin. “There was a time you would have defended them to the death.”

“Well. Things change.”

“Yeah,” Charles agreed, studying the surprisingly calm surface of Erik’s mind. The Erik he remembered had had a mindscape like a turbulent sea, angry and dark all the way through. “Things do.”

Their eyes met and held over the coffee table for a long moment. Erik’s lips glistened in the firelight, wet with hot chocolate, and Charles was struck with the sudden, powerful desire to lean over and lick the flavor right off his mouth.

Erik’s eyes widened, and heat rushed to Charles’ face. “I’m so, so sorry,” he stammered, standing up so quickly his drink nearly slopped over the rim of his mug. “Sometimes I project—my mind wanders and it’s—it’s a terrible habit I have, letting my telepathy a little loose because I live alone and I—” He took a huge breath. “I’m very sorry for causing any discomfort. I’d be perfectly willing to erase that, er…the mental image from your head if you’d like.”

Erik stood, too, and Charles cringed. Erik couldn’t know Charles was bisexual; Charles himself hadn’t known until he’d been halfway through college. He’d thought his feelings for Erik had been a passing fancy, a phase perhaps, or maybe a spot of hero worship. But he hadn’t grown out of it, and here he was, as attracted to Erik now as he had been as a scrawny fifteen-year-old, too small for his class, too young for most of his peers. And now he’d shown all his cards entirely without meaning to, and—and now what?

But there was no disgust in Erik’s face or mind, no repulsion or even a resounding rejection. He put his mug down on the table very gently and said, “Stay out of my head.”

Charles flinched. “A—all right.”

“If you _touch_ that mental image,” Erik continued, and somehow his voice had gone from cool to molten warm in a way that slid down Charles’ throat and sank deep into his gut, lighting a fire there that seemed to roar all the way out to his fingertips, “I’m going to be seriously upset at you because I’m enjoying it too much to let it go.”

“You— _what?”_

Erik stepped over the coffee table in one stride with his long, long—oh _God_ , how were his legs so long and lean and perfect, and how were his fingers so strong and elegant as they touched Charles’ jaw, and how did his eyes smolder like that as if they were burning from the inside, and how was he so fucking _perfect?_

“ _I’m_ perfect?” Erik breathed. “ _You’re_ fucking perfect.”

His mouth tasted like hot chocolate and marshmallows, and his body was one lean line of heat against Charles’, their hands fisted in each other’s sweaters and legs tangling as they staggered back into the couch and toppled over. Charles thought about letting him go, thought about stopping this before it could get too far so he could try to figure out where this kiss had come from and what exactly they were doing here, tearing at each other’s clothes like horny teenagers on a first date, except then Erik was on him, straddling his hips with a wild grin, and Charles couldn’t remember a single reason why they should stop.

It felt like he’d been waiting for ten years, after all.

 

*

 

He woke to sunlight spilling over his face, bright enough to make him squint as he tried to blink his eyes open. Briefly disoriented, he buried his face into the pillow and wondered what time it was and whether he could sleep in or if he had class to get to.

“It’s Saturday,” came a voice to his left. “I doubt you have class.”

Shock shot through him like the jolt of a cattle prod. Suddenly very wide awake, he sat up and twisted to confront the intruder, his telepathy coiled at the ready, one hand already reaching for his phone on the nightstand.

He found Erik standing in front of the window, curtains thrown open to admit the cheery morning, silhouetted in sunlight. He was wearing nothing but a pair of black sweatpants that were a little too short on him, ending halfway down his calves. They were his own, Charles realized after a moment, and the thought of Erik wearing his clothes was startlingly thrilling. What was even more thrilling was the sight of Erik’s bare shoulders, finely muscled and wonderfully broad, tapering down into an impossibly narrow waist that Charles could remember gripping last night, his fingers digging in hard enough to leave imprints.

He knew his own body bore the marks of Erik’s mouth and hands. They’d been frantic and eager and hardly careful as they’d stripped on the couch, clothes littering the floor as they’d warmed each other better than the fire ever had. And then they’d somehow stumbled to the bedroom, kissing languidly as they went, and though the second round in the bed had been calmer and slower, it had been no less intense. Charles could feel the imprint of Erik’s bruising kiss at his collar, just as he could see the red mark at the juncture between Erik’s neck and shoulder where he had dug his teeth.

It had been a very, very long time since he’d had a night like that. And it had been even longer since he’d woken up with his partner still present, or, at least, not rushing to get out the door.

But there was sunlight, he noted with some disappointment. “I suppose the storm’s let up?”

Erik nodded. “The worst of it’s over. I can feel the plows getting to work.”

“Ah.” After a moment, he added reluctantly, “You’ll be going then?”

At that, Erik turned, his brows drawn. “Should I?”

Charles tried to shrug nonchalantly. “It’s up to you. If the streets are clear enough, then I certainly won’t keep you. Of course, I’d _like_ to keep you but if you have somewhere to be—”

“I don’t.”

“Oh.” Charles considered for a moment and then patted the empty space next to him, still slightly warm from Erik’s heat. “Come back to bed then?”

Erik grinned and climbed back in, tugging Charles in close for a kiss. They both grimaced at the morning breath and then laughed. “Maybe not,” Erik said ruefully, just as Charles remarked, “There are other uses for mouths than kissing,” and shimmied down under the blankets to prove his point.

By the time he had wrung the last of Erik’s cries from him and by the time Erik had returned the favor, they were sweaty and drowsy all over again. Erik settled with his head pillowed on Charles’ chest, listening to his still-racing heart, and Charles laid his forearm over his eyes and fought to catch his breath.

Eventually, he said, “We should have done this ten years ago.”

“Mm,” Erik replied, one of his hands splayed warmly across the slope of Charles’ ribs. “Maybe if you’d been able to take a hint back then…”

“A hint?” Charles echoed incredulously. “ _What_ hint? Our acquaintance consisted of you glaring at me sixty percent of the time and ignoring me the other forty.”

Erik raised his head off Charles’ chest to look him in the face, his expression caught between amusement and exasperation. “Let’s not pretend you were any better at indicating any interest.”

“What do you call my asking you out to coffee then?” Charles demanded. “Just the two of us.”

Erik frowned. “You only asked me twice.”  

“Because you refused both times and I figured it would probably be undignified for me to ask a third time,” Charles pointed out. “Also, whenever we were with others, you never spoke to me, hardly looked at me. You smiled at everyone else’s jokes and commented on everyone else’s conversations, but never with mine. What was I supposed to think?”

Erik shook his head, the exasperation gaining clear ground on the amusement. “I only ignored you because I was afraid…” He let out a little huff, and Charles caught the edge of embarrassment in his voice. “You’re a telepath, and here I was, harboring a frankly enormous crush on you. I didn’t know how you felt about me. I didn’t know how you’d react if you knew, and at that point in my life, I’d had almost no experience dating seriously. I was afraid if I talked to you, if I even _looked_ at you too long, you’d hear what I was thinking about you. And it wasn’t all innocent thoughts either.”

Charles laughed. He couldn’t help it. The idea of Erik skirting around him because he’d been afraid of Charles catching wind of his affections, the idea of Erik having affections for _him_ , was almost absurd.

His eyes narrowing into a glare, Erik grumbled, “There’s no need to mock me. I was young and stupid.”

“I’m not mocking you,” Charles laughed, shaking his head. “I just find it incredibly difficult to believe that you actually _liked_ me in high school. I was convinced you tolerated me at best. You did a very good job of making me think you’d rather strangle yourself with Azazel’s tail than talk to me.”

The glare faded into disbelief. “Was I that bad?”

“No, not that bad,” Charles reassured him. Then he thought about it for a moment and admitted, “Maybe half that bad. Three-quarters.”

Erik groaned. “Trust me, that was the opposite of what I was trying for. I wanted to gauge your interest in me before I tried anything, but you were always surrounded by Moira and Alex and the others, and it never seemed like I could get you alone.”

“I’m shocked you never caught me staring at you,” Charles confessed. He stroked a line down Erik’s shoulder, feeling the muscles tense and relax under his touch. “I thought I was being painfully obvious.”

“And yet…”

After a minute, Erik pulled up to kiss Charles firmly on the mouth, and despite the stale morning breath and slightly-chapped lips, it felt glorious.

 _We were remarkably horrible at communication back then, weren’t we?_ Charles mused, deepening the kiss as he wound his arms around Erik’s neck. Erik hummed a noncommittal reply against his lips, his hands roaming across the expanse of Charles’ shoulders and chest, all the way down to his hips.

“Pen?” Erik murmured finally, his lips brushing Charles’ jaw.

“What?”

“Never mind.” Erik raised a hand, and after a moment, the Sharpie sitting beside Charles’ laptop on the narrow desk in the corner of the room spun over to them.

“How—” Charles started, but then he spotted the paperclip wound around the Sharpie’s cap and laughed delightedly. “You’re quite resourceful, aren’t you?”

“At times,” Erik answered with a grin, uncapping the marker and pushing Charles flat against the bed. “How’s this for a hint?”

The cold tip of the Sharpie against Charles’ ribs made him jerk. Erik shot him a glare and then climbed more fully on top of him to pin him down. When the second touch produced the same effect, Charles whispered between giggles, “Sorry, sorry, I’m ticklish.”

“Hold still,” Erik growled, and Charles did his best as Erik slowly wrote something down the curve of his side.

The result, due to his shaking, was a bit crooked but entirely legible when Erik shifted back enough to allow Charles to look. It was Erik’s name and number, pressed in between two of Charles’ ribs, dark lettering standing out starkly against his pale skin.

“Oh,” Charles said, a bit faintly. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting from last night—they’d hardly discussed anything after that first kiss after all, and he hadn’t been sure if this was a one-time deal or if Erik wanted as much as Charles did—but this: this was best case scenario. Yes, this was _good_.

A slow smile beginning to form, he answered, “Yes, I’d say that’s pretty blatant for a hint.”

When Erik smirked, he snatched the marker from Erik’s hand and rolled them both over so that he had full access to Erik’s skin. He sat up, straddling Erik’s hips, and assessed his options. Erik lay placidly beneath him, hands folded behind his head as he waited patiently.

“Do you still wear those turtlenecks?” Charles asked.

“I have a few. Why?”

In reply, Charles leaned forward and wrote his name just above Erik’s collarbone. Underneath, he wrote his number and then, after a moment of deliberation, added across Erik’s left breast, _Coffee, Mon. at 3?_

Erik glanced down and grinned. Taking the marker, he reached up and scrawled a messy _YES_ on Charles’ belly.

Charles laughed. “Do you think we’re communicating satisfactorily now?”  

“I think we’re doing adequately,” Erik agreed, capping the marker and tossing it off the bed. He tugged Charles down to settle more comfortably on top of him and added, “I also think we were communicating pretty effectively last night. Wordlessly.”

 _I_ am _good at wordless,_ Charles remarked, sending along a burst of arousal that made them both shiver. Erik’s fingers dug into his thighs, pinpoints of pressure that seemed to send all the blood into Charles’ groin.

 _Mm,_ he said as he rubbed his hardening cock along the groove of Erik’s hip, _you don’t have anywhere to go today, do you?_

Erik kissed his wrist. “Nowhere in particular.”

_Then you won’t mind too terribly if I keep you in bed all day, do you?_

Erik’s answering smile was toothy as he rocked up, his own erection pressing prominently through the sweatpants against the back of Charles’ thigh. _Not too terribly, no._

It was, Charles decided as he bent to kiss Erik’s neck, shaping up to be an excellent day.

 


End file.
